


I'll Be Home for Christmas

by lokimostly



Series: Rainy Days & Home From War [4]
Category: Kong: Skull Island (2017)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Smut, after what they went through they deserve it, fluff till you throw up, holiday fic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21858187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokimostly/pseuds/lokimostly
Summary: Since returning to civilization, you and Conrad have forgotten Christmas for two years in a row. You’re determined not to miss this one.A/N: This fic contains pre-established characters and references to a two-part series called Rainy Days/Home From War. While this can be read without context, you’re more than welcome to catch up with the series first!
Relationships: James Conrad/Original Female Character(s), James Conrad/Reader, James Conrad/You
Series: Rainy Days & Home From War [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1411123
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	I'll Be Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a Christmas-themed fic, and every year I always forget to do it until it's to late. Caught it just in time! Thank you to everyone who reads, gives kudos, and comments on any/all of my work. You make my world a better place. Happy holidays and happy new year!

The morning was crisp and cold when you opened the passenger-side door of the truck and climbed inside, blowing out clouds of steam with every breath. It was still long before sunrise. The canopy of stars above you were hidden from view by a thick layer of clouds. If you tried, you might be able to make out the silhouettes of mountains against the black sky, but for now the world was still dark and quiet. 

You rubbed your hands together to stave away the chill. Even though you were thoroughly bundled – with a pile of blankets at your feet, no less – the below-freezing temperatures seeped through your clothes and made you shiver. Two minutes out of the house, and your teeth were already chattering.

The driver’s-side door opened and then closed. Conrad leaned over to press a quick kiss to your forehead before buckling his seatbelt and turning the key in the ignition. The old truck rumbled to life, and you immediately cranked the A/C knobs as far as they could go. He watched you with an amused smirk as you made quick work of unfolding the blankets and burying yourself in them, tucking them all the way up to your chin and closing your eyes.

“You know, this was _your_ idea,” He pointed out, stretching his arm across your seat as he backed out of the driveway. His accented voice was still low and raspy from sleep, the kind of tone that drove you crazy in all the right ways. But right now, you pressed a finger against his mouth and motioned for silence.

“Shhh. Tired.”

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head with a smile before shifting gears and turning his attention to the road.

It was your first Christmas together – not technically, but it would count as the first. There had been a Christmas while you were still recovering from your injuries. Yet another passed you by during your first year of travel: you were visiting Milan when you realized the fact, laughed about it, and moved on. Neither had been celebrated properly; you bought champagne and toasted, and caught the train to France the next morning, and that was it. 

It was too early to settle down. Both you and Conrad shared a mutual restlessness, a sort of wanderlust after everything you’d been through. Traveling during war wasn’t really _travel._ Conrad’s contract with MONARCH had paid handsomely, and it only took a look between the two of you to understand what you wanted to do.

_We’re going home, you and I,_ Conrad said. _Wherever you want to go, I’ll follow._

It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

There were road trips, flights, train rides. Long walks, corner cafes; bar crawls through the city and sex in motel rooms when you couldn’t keep your hands to yourselves any longer. You could trace the scars on his skin unhurried, run your nails over his taut muscle and tease him to the point of begging beneath you. He had you memorized by now: the way your body arched and quivered, the kind of touch that made you dig into his skin and bring noise complaints down on your heads the next morning. You were fairly certain the hotel where you’d spent your wedding night had the Conrads on their blacklist.

“_Home_” had turned out to be a person rather than a place, like people so often say. Both of you were perfectly content about that fact; so long as you had each other, what else did you need?

It felt like he never let go of your hand for those two years. Even now, he reached over to stroke your hand resting atop the blankets, reassure himself that you were here.

While you only grew closer over the last two years, the road (finally) wore out. So, little less than a month ago, you found somewhere quiet: close enough to the mountains without leaving the sea behind. You had nothing but the clothes and trinkets in your carry-on bags when you signed the lease and pocketed the copper key. 

This Christmas nearly escaped you again– _nearly_. You were lying with your head in his lap in front of the fireplace when the thought occurred and you shot up like a bolt of lightning. Conrad jumped, instincts kicking in with a serious expression and his hands outstretched. “What? What is it?”

“We don’t have a tree!”

Conrad gave you a puzzled look, raising his eyebrow. “We don’t have furniture, either,” he pointed out, realizing that this was less of a life-and-death situation and more a minor inconvenience.

“But it’s Christmas on _Saturday_!”

The corners of his lips twitched with amusement. “I’m aware.”

You stared at him. He didn’t seem to be picking up on the urgency of your current situation, so you gestured around you. “We have a house,” you said slowly, pointing to the bare corners of your living room, illuminated by the firelight. 

“We have a house,” he agreed softly.

You nodded. “We need a tree.”

Conrad sighed softly and took your hand, pulling you towards him for a kiss. He set his forehead against yours and smiled when you bumped noses. “We need a tree,” he agreed.

In the name of authenticity, you bought a tree-cutting permit (“tree lots aren’t as much fun,” you reasoned) and planned the day. A drive up to the mountains in the morning, returning with your quarry, and spending the rest of the day in full spirit of the season. Conrad made sure you wrote ‘drink hot chocolate’ on the to-do list. You would never have guessed that he had such a sweet tooth.

Now, you were fast asleep in the passenger seat amidst a pile of blankets and quilts. Conrad glanced at you whenever he could spare it, taking in the sight of you; even in sleep, your hand was outstretched to hold his. The rosy pale of dawn glowed pink on your skin, and his heart swelled so much it was almost painful.

He never thought he could love you more than he already did, but every day you proved him wrong.

It took another hour before the road broke the tree line, and you stirred, coming awake with a yawn and a stretch.

“Good morning,” He drawled teasingly. You laughed in surprise and smacked his chest. “I was _tired_.” 

Conrad smirked, catching your hand mid-hit and pressing a kiss to your fingers. “You should have gone to bed sooner,” he chastised, but his smirk was unmistakable – and only grew when you gasped in indignation.

“If I remember right, _you _were keeping me up.”

“Former SAS, darling,” he reminded you. “Four hours of sleep are plenty in my book.”

“Oh, that’s not fair.”

He laughed, taking a turn down an unmarked road and giving you an expression of innocence that was _almost_ convincing. “Are you suggesting I stop doting on my wife?” 

It wasn’t a new title by any means, but whenever he said it, your heart leapt. “No,” you admitted, leaning over and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t ever stop.”

Conrad followed the road until he found a spot to pull over. You pulled off your blankets as he turned the key and got out, walking around to the other side and opening your door. He took you under the arms without question, lifting you down and setting you on the rocky ground before fetching the handsaw and tree tag from the truck bed. 

“Your responsibility,” he said seriously, handing you the red tag with comedic reverence. You accepted it with the same solemnity, only breaking into a smile when you pocketed the item and looped your arm through his, starting down the road.

~

You pushed the tree into the truck bed and shut the tailgate, wiping your hands on your jeans. “We have a tree!” You grinned, unable to hide your excitement. 

Conrad laughed and got into the truck. You followed, almost skipping, and pulled yourself inside the truck. You were fixing your seatbelt and preparing to bury yourself under a mountain of blankets when he turned the key, and the engine stuttered.

You paused. Conrad’s brow furrowed and he tried again, forcing the key forward. The engine spluttered, coughed, and refused to start. 

“Damn,” he swore, sitting back in his seat for a moment. You unbuckled and slid out of the seat, popping the hood as he came around, leaning against the metal with a pensive expression.

You could feel the frustration vibrating off of him and leaned against his arm. “Hey,” You said gently. “Nothing we can’t fix. Remember the ploat?” 

His gaze flickered down to you and he hummed in agreement. “I remember.” He pushed himself off and set his hands on his hips, nodding. “Alright. I think there’s a tool chest under the back seat.” He glanced at you, raising an eyebrow.

You gave him a mock salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”

~

A few hours later, it was starting to snow.

“Babe, did you know we’re low on oil?” You asked, sliding the stick back into the cylinder and leaning down to peer at Conrad, who was lying on the ground.

“That’s not our current problem,” he grunted, his long legs splayed and muscles flexing as he twisted the wrench against something on the truck’s underside. You hummed, appreciating the view unabashedly– and smirking when he noticed and scoffed. 

“You _could_ help, you know,” he pointed out, grunting when the piece came off. He handed you the fuel filter and you reached down to take it, twisting off the cap. “Oh, yuck.”

Conrad slid out and leaned up on his elbows. “Clogged fuel filter.”

“Didn’t you check all this before buying the truck?” You asked rhetorically, pulling the oil bucket towards you and tapping out the loose debris, digging out the more stubborn clots with your hand for lack of an actual cleaner. 

Conrad watched the snowflakes as they landed in your hair like a feathery halo, sticking against your skin before melting. They clung to your eyelashes and made your cheeks flush against the cold. Your lips parted with a huff and you looked up to hand it back to him, pausing. “What? Something on my face?”

He laughed through his nose, shaking his head. “No. Just…” he trailed off, and a faraway look crossed this face– the kind you were all too familiar with. 

You knelt down and cupped his cheek with one hand, stroking your thumb against his skin. “Hey. I’m here,” you reminded him gently. His blue-green eyes flickered and he reached up, pulling you down for a long, sweet kiss. You relished the taste of his lips, inhaled the smell of sandalwood and vanilla cologne. He broke away and closed his eyes closing his eyes. 

“I know,” he murmured. “Sometimes you just make me wonder whether or not I’m dreaming.” 

“Oh my god, James, _way _too sappy,” you laughed, pushing against his chest and rolling your eyes. “C’mon, screw this thing back in so I can try the engine again.”

He chuckled at the suspicious shade of red tingeing your cheeks but spared you the dignity of commenting on it and took the filter from your hands, ducking under the truck and picking up the wrench. You fished the keys out of your pocket and got in, leaning out with your hand on the wheel until your husband appeared with the tool chest in hand and gave you the all-clear.

You muttered a quick prayer and turned the keys. The engine sputtered for a moment, wheezing and coughing before something caught and it rumbled to life. You whooped victoriously, sticking your hands up and laughing as Conrad came around. “We did it!” 

Conrad wrapped his arms around you in a brief, celebratory hug before you clambered over to your side and pulled your seatbelt on. The snow was coming down thickly now; there was already a sheet of white on the ground, and in the branches of the trees it was beginning to stick. You pulled one of the blankets up and tossed them over Conrad’s shoulders, pressing a kiss against his cheek for good measure before snuggling in and tuning the radio to something familiar: songs from your war days, which seemed so long ago. 

He put the truck into gear and turned out onto the road, reaching out to take your hand as you headed back down, towards home – with your Christmas tree in tow.

~

By the time you pulled into the driveway, it was dark again. Conrad unloaded the tree while you stacked the grocery bags onto one arm, heading down the snow-covered sidewalk. It was still coming down in droves and inches deep; no doubt you’d be stuck inside tomorrow.

“Where are you going?”

“Getting the mail!” You called. “That’s a thing we have now, remember?” 

Conrad made a comment you didn’t catch as you slid up to the mailbox and opened it, retrieving the assortment of letters there before heading inside. You tapped your shoes on the porch before stepping in, letting out a soft sigh at the welcoming, warm atmosphere. Furniture or no furniture, there was a naked Christmas tree in the corner, and that meant home. 

“Hot chocolate?” James asked, taking the groceries from you with one hand and helping your coat off with the other. 

“Mm. Please.” You sat down on the floor and began unlacing your shoes, glancing at the pile of mail next to you. There was a thick yellow envelope amongst the pile that caught your eye, and you paused in undressing to glance at the return address. “Hey, Mason sent us something!”

“Who?” came Conrad’s voice from the kitchen.

“Weaver! The photographer?”

“_Oh,” _you heard him laugh. He came back out with two steaming mugs and handed you one, walking over to the fireplace and flipping the switch. “We’re on first-name basis now, I take it.”

“Apparently. That was fast, though,” you mused, walking over and motioning for him to make space for you to sit between his legs. He obliged, wrapping his arms around your waist and setting his chin on your shoulder as you tore it open and pulled out the letter inside.

“_Conrad and L/N_,” you began, reading it out loud. James hummed and reached for his hot chocolate. “She knows you’re a Conrad now, she was at our wedding.”

You elbowed him gently and straightened the paper, clearing your throat ceremoniously and beginning again. “Amended to, _the Conrads_,” you said. “_Congrats on finally taking a breather for once. Now I can send you the film I’ve held onto for the past two years_.”

“Perks of having a mail box, I suppose,” James nodded, inhaling quickly through his teeth when he attempted a sip of his scalding hot chocolate.

“_The wedding photos are in a different letter, and will probably get there late. _Oh, I forgot she took those,” you murmured, clicking your tongue. “_Until then, enjoy these. I always figured something was going on with you two, way back when. P.S.,” _you added. “_For your eyes alone, as usual. Cheers, Mason Weaver.” _You raised an eyebrow and tapped the envelope. “They must be from the LandSat project.”

Conrad hummed in agreement. “May I?” He asked, setting the cup down and reaching around your waist to pull out the pictures. You leaned back against him as he slid them into his palm, filtering through each one slowly.

Technically you, Conrad, and everyone else involved in the mission to Skull Island were under government oath not to talk about what had happened. You had no qualms with that; you wanted to put the whole experience behind you, anyway. But it wasn’t always possible. Rainy days brought aching pain to your left leg, and there wasn’t a month that went by without one of you startling the other awake from a dream that had once been all too real. It was part of the reason for your closeness: you and Conrad were poignantly aware of how close you had come to losing each other.

But according to the photographs, perhaps it wasn’t all that bad.

“Look at that,” he murmured, pointing to a still image of Conrad sitting beside your sleeping figure, aboard the wrecked ship. The lights of the aurora borealis were visible through the window, and evident in the hues of blue and purple that the photo was cast in. 

You laughed, tapping the laminate. “You gave me your jacket. I remember.”

“_You _almost got us killed that night, that’s what I remember.”

You rolled your eyes dismissively and set the photo aside. “Yeah, yeah, moving on.”

The next photo was a bit harder to make out, taken across the flight deck of the _Athena. _You didn’t recognize the angle, but Conrad made a noise and laughed through his nose. “What?”

“I saw you and jumped out of our helicopter,” he explained. “Ran across the deck and told her to take my seat.”

You made an “O” and nodded. “And startled me half to death. She really didn’t miss anything,” you mused, gazing at the miniature silhouette of both of you in the helicopter, the chopper blades blurry against the frame, with storm clouds brewing behind you.

Conrad took the photograph and set it aside. There were a few others inside the stack–pictures of your group members, candid photos of you and Conrad in your own separate settings. There was an image of you and Slivko made you smile. But more frequently than not, you and Conrad shared the same pensive and worried expressions. Every moment had been a life-or-death experience.

You and Conrad filtered through the deck until you reached the final one: taken on Marlow’s boat– or _ploat_, as Slivko had coined it. You and Conrad sitting side-by-side at the stern, set against the lush green mountains with all your bags and gear at your feet. Your hands inches away from touching, the two of you looking upwards and listening intently to Marlow, whose arms were frozen in some descriptive gesture. Only, Conrad wasn’t looking at him: his eyes were fixed on you, gazing at you while you were oblivious, so full of tenderness that it broke your heart.

“You loved me,” you murmured, like you were realizing it for the first time. “Way back then.”

Conrad’s arms tightened around your waist. He nodded, leaning his head against yours. “I was more than a little lovestruck,” he agreed quietly, in a tone that made your heart flutter inside your chest. You nestled further into the comfortable expanse of his chest, reaching up and teasing his hair with your fingers.

“Still lovestruck?” You asked hopefully, smiling when his laugh vibrated against your back. 

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, looking out through the windows at the falling snow and holding you tight. “For as long as I live and breathe.”


End file.
